


The Greenwich Horror

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [43]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU from TGG, Asexuality Spectrum, Betrayal, Cultists, Cults, Deception, H.P. Lovecraft, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Science, Short Story, genetic experiments, lovecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I felt an inexplicable draw to his mind. It was as if we were two beings made of entirely the same material, and left alone too long together, our atoms would forget that we were separate, and begin to swap freely as if part of a larger whole."</p><p>AU written in the style of H.P. Lovecraft</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. The Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #65: Horror
> 
> This one is kind of my baby... I got the fleeting idea to do a Lovecraftian story and I couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> Style is loosely based on "The Whisperer in the Darkness," the story itself somewhat taken from "The Dunwich Horror." Deals/touches on a lot of the whole mythos, however.

_(Taken from the private journal of Sherlock S. Holmes:_

 

_The tale I am about to recount deals in probably the strangest case of any I've ever encountered in the whole expanse of my career as a consulting detective. Whether or not you choose to believe all that occurred on that fateful day is up to you and your own records, but do understand this was the case that resulted in my resignation from my duties as a representative of the law.)_

 

Sherlock paces. 

And paces. 

And paces. 

He's likely to wear a hole in the carpet. He checks his phone. No missed calls. No new texts.

As he paces, he reviews the situation. The _hopeless_ situation. He checks his phone again, _Still nothing._

_There hasn't been a case in weeks. Lestrade won't let me come in because they're being inspected. Apparently it's not entirely "legal" or "ethical" for me to be working there, so I have to stay off. John threw out my cigarettes. Mrs. Hudson had me pay off everyone in the immediate area to prevent me from getting more._

"Might as well look for trouble." He mutters, desperately texting his last resort:

 

**Bored. -SH**

 

**What a coincidence, I'm busy. -JM xx**

 

 ****_(Yes, he did always sign off with two "x"s. It's fabled that they represent kisses, but I've never asked him directly._

_I'd met James Moriarty a little over two years ago. He was a freelance web-designer by profession. The man appeared at my then-residence on Montague Street, wishing to recruit my services, though at the time, he appeared to me as, "Jim Zucco." At first it seemed like a simple case of fraud and embezzling grants, being pinned on the hapless temporary employee of Charles Dexter Ward, Inc, a genetics research facility._

_However, from the moment of our first connection, I could sense in him tendencies of a most diabolical kind. Despite my reservations, I took the case solely because I thought the cheeky web designer was actually guilty._

_Within days of my investigation, I found compelling evidence that the "frame job" was actually set up by Mr. Zucco himself, in an effort to give himself a better case — a framing this obvious lead to certain suspicions, after all. Not only that, but his alias quickly crumbled; there was no such man as "Jim Zucco."_

_Curiously, I didn't find it necessary to turn him in and have a good guffaw at his expense. Rather, I applauded his cleverness; he knew he'd get caught, so instead of trying to acquit himself, he cheapened the case._

_So I submitted my testimony: an absolute lie. I informed the police that I felt James Zucco was a man of great resource and intellect, but he had absolutely no trace of the supposedly stolen money. In fact, I gave credible enough (mostly faked) proof that it was the CEO of the company himself, Joseph Curwen._

_Curwen was fired for the sake of the company's reputation, but nobody went to jail. Too many parties looked equally suspicious, and there wasn't strong enough evidence to reasonably hold any of them._

_Of course, I didn't let "Zucco" off the hook that easily. We never had a "confrontation," but I invited him to my flat for tea shortly afterward to "de-brief" from the case. Cordially, I made it clear that I knew of his guilt, and the favor of perjury I did was out of admiration. Yet, I also stressed that I wouldn't spare him again, and that he'd have to do a much better job of covering his tracks so that it never came down to being on opposing sides ever again._

_Now… I pride myself on reading people. Seeing into intentions has never been an issue, which is what makes me such a great detective. I even predicted my previous partner's descent into madness, Thomas Gregson, who until just before Moriarty's case, worked for Scotland Yard. I once solved a case that'd taken the Yard six weeks of blundering around, in less than six hours (while I was high on opiates). I gleaned my brother's "secret" employment as the head of MI6 within days of his hire. Within moments of meeting 95% of the population, I know their life stories._

_The point I'm trying (and succeeding) to make is that I'm not often surprised. Especially when it comes to people._

_So I'd like the full impact of my statement to hit: Jim was nothing like I had imagined.)_

 

**Anything I'd be interested in? -SH**

 

**Oh, entirely. You'd love it. But you're going to have to wait a few weeks before you run into it. -JM xx**

 

 _(_ _It turned out, Jim had absolutely no interest in staying out of my way. He introduced himself formally as "James Moriarty," and even had the audacity to challenge_ me _to get out of_ his _way._

_First of all, he did things like this all the time; he just usually wasn't the one on the ouch-end of the heat. Second, he was pretty good at it. A master, I might be inclined to proclaim. See, he was somewhat of a specialist, a prodigious genius of many talents, focused on the criminal arts._

_When this particular case of grand larceny went south, he decided to blame his innocent alter-ego he'd made to get close to the necessary security codes. And he decided to enlist my help with his trial, having heard of my own brilliance. But our association didn't stop after the arraignment._

_These days, through a series of interesting circumstances, he is my cryptic eyes and ears in the London underworld.)_

 

**Hint? -SH**

 

**You'll know it when you see it ;) -JM xx**

 

_(Oh, and while I'm on the subject of Jim, I would be remiss to neglect mentioning his overall flirtatious nature, if only to give you a better idea of his character._

_I believe he's tried to cultivate the idea of "good old-fashioned villain," but it comes across more as, "the mysteriously sexy opportunist who gets bored very easily." Which, depending on your definition, might be the same thing.)_

 

**Well that doesn't help the problem right *now* -SH**

 

**Test out some new chemicals. -JM xx**

 

**Boring. -SH**

 

**Tell me what you're wearing. -JM xx**

 

**Dressing gown. -SH**

 

**Nothing else? -JM xx**

 

**Nope. -SH**

 

**I suppose you could come over… I bet I could keep you busy ;) -JM xx**

 

**If you're implying we should have sexual relations, I'd prefer a more stimulating day. -SH**

 

_(After our initial encounter, I was content to leave things as they were, and allow the criminal to slip from between my fingers. But as I said, the man never had any intention of leaving me be. While I assumed it would be to cause me trouble, he proved quite a favorable companion. He didn't become my detecting partner, nay, back in those days I had no interest in one._

_But a companion. One unlike any I'd ever had. I didn't indulge in anything so boring as "friends," nor did I enjoy the camaraderie of others — there was no one out there who saw the world the way I did. Thought the way I did. Until Jim._

_We didn't often meet up, but when we did, I felt an inexplicable draw to his mind. It was as if we were two beings made of entirely the same material, and left alone too long together, our atoms would forget that we were separate, and begin to swap freely as if part of a larger whole._

_As to our… "relationship…" well, he's my arch-nemesis. Something I treasure a great deal, never having_ had _a nemesis at any time previous. Yet we still make time between our grand combat for drinks, dinner, light conversation, the sparing intimate physical contact. I'd never considered myself a sexual being, and I'm still not, but Jim is, and my attraction to his mind occasionally crosses into the realm of the physical. It isn't the worst cross to bear in the name of amity._

_Obviously, my brother doesn't approve, but I hardly care._

_Moriarty is truly a singular man, if such a word could describe him.)_

 

 ****When asked about his relationship to James Moriarty, Sherlock will answer one of three ways.

If you are Mycroft Holmes, he will respond, "I prefer not to put a label on it."

If you are James Moriarty: "Shut up and do something diabolical and clever." (Which is the _only_ circumstance in which he'll ever tell Jim to shut up)

If you are pretty much anyone else: "He's my arch-nemesis. Have you seen where I put my riding crop?" 

 ****Meanwhile, Jim has exactly one answer, no matter the inquisitive mind: "He's all I think about." It works on many levels.

 

**Darn. Shoot the wall? -JM xx**

 

_(If there was one thing I appreciated about Jim more than anything else, it was his tolerance of my proclivities. Then again, tit for tat: I found his crimes endearing, he found my [technically] illegal hobbies charming.)_

 

**My last clip ran out. -SH**

 

**Well, if you're really *that* bored, I may have a case for you. -JM xx**

 

**You know I don't go for *your* kind of work. -SH**

 

**I said "case," not "fun spot of mischief." Really, Sherlock, pay attention. -JM xx**

 

**Interest me in three words or less. -SH**

 

**"The Greenwich Horror." -JM xx**

 

**Is that supposed to frighten me? -SH**

 

**Do you even have the ability, pet? -JM xx**

 

**Can't be sure, haven't felt anything so common as fear in quite a while. -SH**

 

**Then it *is* a possibility. -JM xx**

 

**What is the case, exactly? -SH**

 

**You're the detective, sexy. Figure it out. -JM xx**

 

 **** _Mysterious — he knows how to get my attention._ Tenting his hands, Sherlock considers his options, _Greenwich isn't that far from here… and if nothing else, they'll at least sell me smokes._

 

**I will do some research. That's not a guarantee I'll take the case. -SH**

 

**You'll be compensated. Handsomely. -JM xx**

 

**Still not a guarantee. -SH**

 

**Sure it's not ;) -JM xx**

 

**You know I don't work for commission. -SH**

 

Sherlock scrounged around for something clean to wear, though he ended up wearing exactly what he usually wore anyway. 

Sliding into his coat, Sherlock considered his options, _The Yard would probably have an inkling, but I've been temporarily banned from the building… There's Mycroft, but he would ask why I wanted to know, and I don't much feel like telling him I'm working for Jim on this one…_ Which left old-fashioned investigative work, _Starting from basically zero, though…_

The detective sighs, _Might as well get a move on and talk to people._

 

**Check the Miskatonic for clues. -JM xx**

 


	2. II. Scoping Out The Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jim Holmes." Moriarty extended his unoccupied hand, "Wonderful to meet you."

_(The Miskatonic turned out to be a bar in the heart of Greenwich. At first I thought it odd I'd never heard of it. However, after asking around, I was shocked to find that despite its prime location, most of my subjects had no idea it existed. Those that had taken notice of its presence purported that it was almost always empty. And when it wasn't, it appeared that the same five or six people attended._

_After finding the place, I was apprehensive of the atmosphere it exuded: dark. The windows were tinted, obscuring any light that might've been on inside. No hours posted. No sign indicating the open or closed status. You could barely make out the silhouettes of customers; looked like six today._

_Upon entering I found my initial assessment of it's darkness wasn't unfounded — the lights were set to "dim," and gothic orchestral music played softly from the speakers. Something I imagine I'd hear in a Poe story. I sat a small table near one of the windows, gazing out to help get ideas flowing: why would Jim send me_ here _? The cocktails on the wall weren't any I'd heard of before, among them "Traditional Azathoth"; "Twisted Tentacle"; "From Kadath With Madness." I ordered something called a "Sweet Oblivion," though I had very little intention of drinking it._

 _As I received my drink, I noticed a redheaded girl at the bar, about twenty, wearing a small purple dress, kept giving me side-glances. She seemed like she wouldn't be averse to gossiping, and that was how I got some of my best information. I assumed her wide, leering eyes meant interest, so smiling, I went to sidle up to her.)_  

 

"What's your poison?" Sherlock asks, taking on a far sunnier demeanor than he felt.

She returned with a sweet smile, "Traditional Azathoth." 

It arrived for her almost immediately, Sherlock amazed by the presentation: it had three layers. A glass at the bottom, containing absinthe. A strainer on top, a few sugar cubes perched in the middle. And a stand, holding an ice cube above it. 

"Slowly, the water will drip, adding sugar." She explains, seeing Sherlock's astonishment, "Drink it when the anticipation becomes too much."

"I see." 

There's a quiet moment as they both watch the sugar become syrup, blending with the alcohol beneath it, "Polaris Lomar." She offered her hand, nails painted black with silver stripes, finally looking at him dead-on.

"Sherlock Holmes." He didn't take it — he hadn't worn his gloves, and touch wasn't something he was too keen on. 

He'd expected it to get the same strange look it usually did, the name "Sherlock" a bit out of the ordinary (though, her name was far from ordinary as well). But to his surprise, the young woman's eyes danced, jaw falling open, " _The_ Sherlock Holmes?" She asks in a curious whisper, bringing her outstretched hand to her mouth.

"I assume there's only one in the world… so, yes." 

"I read your blog!" She chirps, utterly proud of herself, "And then Dr. Watson's, when it became more popular."  

Sherlock supposed the wait had finally become too much, as Polaris placed down a napkin and removed the top two tiers of her glass, placing them on the dark cloth. She takes a sip and grins, "Sweet." 

"Indeed." He takes a moment to think of how to phrase his question, "Well, if you know who I am, you must assume that I'm out on a case."

"Does the great Sherlock Holmes never have any fun?" She teases.

"Ah…" He pauses, "Sometimes, but not today… my client is rather serious."

 

_(To be clear, I'm usually aware of when I'm being flirted with. I just choose to ignore it, or use it to gain information. Which I pick depends entirely on the person and the situation._

_Oh. And Jim is probably the_ least _serious of any man I've ever encountered, but only when it came to me. For his "business" he was a most formidable figure. I was usually quite happy to be on his "good" side — if he had wanted me dead, I'd be_ dead _.)_

 

"Alright." She gave him a sultry once-over, as if she believed his M.O. for the day could be altered, "How can I help?"

"I'm not entirely sure myself…" He feigns a coy, confused look, "But I've been instructed to ask about the… um… 'Greenwich Horror?'" 

 

_(People like when they see me unsure… they're inclined to be far more cooperative if they feel they could be smarter than me._

_Even though they never are. Information isn't cleverness, it is what you do with it.)_

 

"The Greenwich Horror!" She snorts, almost spitting out her drink, " _Why_?"

"Again, I'm not quite sure. I was just told to ask about it. Why, is there nothing there?" 

"Well I'm certain it's just a myth." She says, wiping her mouth, "Some weird voodoo people are cooking up because they're afraid of those weird guys in robes." 

"Clarify?" 

"Um… there's a barn on the outskirts of town here." She took another sip, "Something like sixteen people have moved in, and they don't come out. The few that have been seen wear these magenta robes that go down to their feet, with hoods that obscure their faces… but most of them have essentially disappeared."

"… there's a barn in London?"

She shrugs, "Really, once you're looking, you can't miss it."

"And they're keeping something in there?"

"Well… supposedly, there have been strange noises coming out of it. Like… growling. Something other than human."

"Like a large animal?"

"Mm…" She took on an ominous tone, "Nothing recognizable. Those in the know… well, they're convinced the inhabitants are _cultists_ … and that they've summoned some sort of _monster._ "

 

 _(Of course, I didn't really believe in cult blood rituals having any_ real _effects besides placebo, I was fascinated that she, and many others, appeared to be convinced of it. People are stupid, but they aren't so easily fooled by claims of aliens these days._

_Whatever was happening, it must've had the benefit of good advertising.)_

 

Just as Sherlock is about to ask further questions, intrigued by this other-worldly tone the case had taken (even if he didn't believe it), he's interrupted by a familiar Irish lilt.

"Oh, honey!" The voice hit both of their ears, "I thought we were meeting closer to three!" Jim took the stool to Sherlock's right, entwining their hands, Jim's sporting a heavy wedding-looking ring. 

"Ah, sorry." Sherlock smirks as he plays along, "You know I like to be early… excessively so."

"Who's your lovely friend here?"

"Polaris." He nodded toward her.

"Jim Holmes." Moriarty extended his unoccupied hand, "Wonderful to meet you."

"And you." The redhead replies, "… Holmes?" 

"Oh yes." Jim, much to Sherlock's jealousy, was a much better actor than he was (and that is no small feet), letting a crimson blush flow onto his face, "Sherlock's secret husband… he's pretty private of a person. Doesn't even wear his ring most days."

Returning the blush, she stood up, "Well… I have somewhere to be." 

 

 _(Poor excuse, but I could understand the embarrassment. It was truly unfortunate she got so flustered — had she stuck around, she might've seen Jim dance at the end of the rope, trying to keep up that whole "married" charade.)_  

 

"Abandoned barn, hmm? A bit cliché, even for a secret cult." Jim said after the young miss had exited. Letting go of Sherlock's hand, and picking up his beverage, he took a tentative sip, "Hmm… I didn't take you as one for fruity drinks." 

"Clearly I'm not, seeing as I didn't drink it."

"Too bad." Jim downs it in its entirety, "A little sugar's good for you." He winks.

 

_(As little as four months ago, this gesture might've off-put me, or caused me to look away in some sort of unexacting shame. But after exposure to Jim's affectionate ministrations, I was no longer shocked._

_Still, it didn't help me understand_ why _he continued — 90% of the time, I wasn't one to reciprocate._

_Furthermore, he didn't usually pry into my cases, nor did we meet so often in public, or by surprise. I was understandably a bit suspicious. In retrospect, however, not nearly as much as I should've been.)_

 

"What are you doing here, Jim?" 

"Mmm the prospect of drinking with you in the middle of the day seemed novel?" He fluttered his eyelashes bashfully. 

"I'm serious."

"Isn't it _obvious_ , Sherly?"

"You want to hinder my investigations? Odd, seeing as you sent me — "

"Noooo, _doofus_!" He sticks out his tongue briefly, "I'm here to _help_ you."

" _You're_ going to be my Watson?" He asks incredulously.

"If you _must_ phrase it like that…" Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust, "Yes."

Sherlock doesn't respond, still trying to work out he'd missed a _barn_ in London, "Well… your insights will probably be very useful."

"Obviously. I'm awesome." Another drink had appeared in front of Jim, though this one was a martini of some ilk, "Poison apple." He sips, giving no further explanation. 

"Why am I here?"

"Because you took the tube here, I assume."

"No, why did you assign me to this case?"

"Um, Sherly…" Jim casts him a sideways glance, "You asked."

"Yes, but _you_ assigned it to me, and not to cause any world-ending calamity." _That I know of_ , "Meaning you've got some personal stake in it." _What_ is _my case, exactly?_

"Fine." Jim pauses, reading his expression, "A few of my men have disappeared. Usually, I don't _care_ , but it seems like this… _cult_ has kidnapped them. Perhaps for…" Jim smirks, " _Nefarious_ purposes." 

"What, like human sacrifices?"

"So I'm guessing." He shrugs, "I'd rather it not happen again." 

"I don't think you _really_ believe that."

"Just because I don't believe in _magic,_ doesn't mean I don't acknowledge others _do_. So no, I don't think their corpses are being used for demon summoning, but I think these cultists might." 

"And why do you think they're going toward this… _Horror?_ "

Without missing a beat, Jim reaches inside his jacket, thunking something on the counter. Sherlock picks up what appeared to be an ochre colored book. But upon closer inspection, it was pinkish… and had the texture of dried human skin.

"What… what _is_ this?!" Sherlock twitches back violently, dropping the book. For the first time in many years, he finds himself legitimately _shocked_.

"Appears to be a copy of the Necronomicon…" Jim sniffs at it distastefully, "Bound in human flesh, as is the tradition…" He finishes the next drink, "Found it in one of my missing men's apartments."

"A copy of _what_?" 

"Some sort of demonic opposite partner to the Bible…" Jim carefully took the small volume back, "Written by someone called 'The Mad Arab' at some point a few hundred years ago… details all sorts of rituals and spells."

"But you don't believe it's actually supernatural?" 

"No…" Jim hiccups, "But I've been reading it, and it details some rather disturbing things… things they've probably been doing to my lackeys." 

"I see…" Sherlock remained rightfully suspicious, "What is this _really_ about?"

"Huh?" Jim had accidentally gotten a little buzzed, and thus lost some eloquence.

"You don't really care about your peons… actually, the only person you care about is _you_." 

"Well…" Jim curls his fingers back into Sherlock's, "Not the _only_ person." 

 

 _(Of course, I cared a great deal about him as well. But for some reason, he was avoiding the topic — the_ actual _case I was supposed to be working on._

_My mistake was assuming it was because he was smashed.)_

 

Seeing how the conversation would go, Sherlock adapted; he respected Jim far too much to _act_ or _lie_ , but in truth, he did have a soft spot or two reserved for these situations, "Darling…" He whispers, "I'm worried about you. You're making some crazy claims." 

" _Fhtagn_." A stab of terror ran across Jim's face.

"Erm… bless you?"

"Do you really not know?" 

"About what?"

"The _nightmares_!"

"… you're drunk."

" _Jerk_." Jim hisses.

"Really, how many are you on?"

"… _three_. But that doesn't mean you get a free pass to be rude."

"Start being specific, then I might start showing some sympathy."

"The nightmares," Jim snarls, "Come to you when one of the Great Old Ones is being summoned, as he calls out to those who might best service him…" 

 

_(I wasn't entirely certain what a "Great Old One" was, but I felt confident in assuming it had something to do with the "monster" that was being "summoned.")_

 

"And you fit into that category?" Occasionally, and only momentarily, Sherlock would forget how important Jim was to London's seedy underbelly. _Even beyond London…_ "I suppose you've made yourself an ideal candidate, what with the criminal empire you run…"

"Well my worship of chaos probably caught the cultist's attention, but that's not why I'm worried."

"Then _why_." Sherlock sighs in exasperation, "Get on with it."

"Because _they_ worship _insanity._ " Jim grasps at his hair, "They _all_ are. And if this continues, and whatever they're calling forth gets in _my_ head, I'm next." 

"So you've been having graphic nightmares?"

He nods slowly, "That's why I know so much."

"You haven't been _reading_ about it, you've been _seeing_ it." 

"Yes. Both, but yes."

"What about the part where this is all crap?"

"Don't believe me?"

"There's no such thing as _God_ , or _insanity worshipping cultists_ , or _Great Old Ones_ , or… implanting those dreams into your head." 

"Whether or not you _believe_ it, doesn't change the fact that it's _happening_." Jim's eyes dilate, his hands have developed a tremor, "Just do this to put my mind at ease, Sherlock. _Please_."

"I'm here anyway." Sherlock rolls his eyes, "No reason to turn back now."

"Shall we, then?" 

They walk out of the bar, hand-in-hand. 


	3. III. Remnants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm guessing there's an easier way in…" Jim comments, winking cheekily, "But I like watching you exert yourself."

"Here we are." Jim giggles a bit, the twenty-minute walk not enough to sober him up, "The home of the infamous Greenwich Horror." 

Sherlock looked onward, bemused, _Really, how did I miss a run-down barn?_ To his credit, it had been sandwiched between two office buildings that were in similar states of disrepair, "How has this not been commandeered for some sort of city project?" 

"Special permits." Jim says vaguely.

"Someone _pays_ to keep the entire block this way?"

"Mhm! Mhm!" He nods enthusiastically, "Shall we go inside?" 

 

_(From the outside, it looked quite normal, aside from the peeling red paint, weather-damaged from exposure._

_Approaching the large sliding door, I couldn't say I had any further observations; aside from the location, it was ordinary as a barn tucked away in London could be.)_

 

"Not locked." Sherlock notes, giving the door a good heave, inching open, "Just difficult."

"I'm guessing there's an easier way in…" Jim comments, winking cheekily, "But I like watching you exert yourself." 

"Of _course._  Don't help. I've got this." He rolls his eyes, but took some pleasure in seeing Jim's booze-reddened cheeks. 

Finally, he worked open a gap about two feet wide, squeezing in sideways, Jim quick to follow.

 

_(The inside of the barn was particularly unremarkable: disheveled bales of hay, rusted tractor, rotting wood from age and neglect. Two stories, though there was no conceivable way to reach the top, the set of stairs had been bashed down recently by something large — could've been mechanical, could've been this "beast" I'd been hearing about._

_It was dim, light filtering in from the boarded up windows, the mildly foul smell of hidden animal droppings prevalent._

_Overall unsuspicious, save for a large object in the corner, tented by an enormous white tarp.)_

 

Jim cast Sherlock a sideways glance, eyes flitting toward the misshapen cowl, "I know." The detective grimaces, "But I don't like the look of it."

"Buck up, there could be prizes!"

"Is there _ever_ anything good concealed under tarps?"

"Mmm… boats? Uh… tents with hot guys in them?"

Sherlock cast Jim a bemused look, "Let's focus on the case, shall we?"

" _Jealous_?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something cutting, but his response is interrupted the moment he lifts the cover. 

 

_(The smell that we unleashed by delivering even the mildest jostle to that sheathing curls my nose hairs to this day. Whatever subject we could've been discussing would've immediately by shot out of my head, as all of my processing power went towards deconstructing the smell, my eye temporarily blinded._

_But, as it turned out, had I not been rendered without that sense, I could've regained my brain space much quicker.)_

 

"Agh!" Sherlock and Jim's facial expressions mirror each other's in extreme disgust, scrunching to a ridiculous degree. 

 

_(Rotting flesh. Bodies upon bodies, at least thirty, heaped together to form the pile that the tarp had hidden. But there was something… off, about the corpses.)_

 

"Are these…?" _Your men?_ Sherlock's question cuts off, not wanting to inhale anymore than he had to.

Jim, holding his breath, only nods. For a moment, the detective spots tears welling up in the shorter man's eyes, but whether it was from the fumes, or the loss, he couldn't be sure. _Although, I'd put money on the stench…_  

"That is…" Jim's wrinkled nose releases some of the tension as he covers it, leaning it to look at one of the bodies, "An _approximation_ of my men… I don't quite remember the scales… blood draining… or their eyes being cut out…" He braves kicking a few, "And what are _those?_ " 

With sinking horror, Sherlock realized it wasn't just _men_ : there were small, almost blob-like creatures. Some with tentacles, some with sharp teeth, some with a greenish or pink pallor, the texture resembling something like a squid, "Oh gods…" Jim shudders, "I _recognize_ them."

 

_(While I was yet to be convinced these were incarnations of god-like beings, I was startled by their appearance, so unlike any I've ever seen before. I mentally compared them to squid, but that hardly scratched the surface; it was more like putting a squid in a blender with a wolf and a chicken, and rolling them into balls to be placed on a baking sheet._

_Except I'd never think of putting these decomposing polyps into an oven, much less my mouth.)_

 

"' _Gods_?'" Sherlock means to mock, but it is the answer to his next question.

"That's what these _are_!" Jim starts to hyperventilate, frozen in place, "The more tentacle-y, teeth-y ones are the eldest…" he lowers his voice, dripping with fear, " _Azathoth_." 

"Seriously, desist with the gibberish." 

"I _am_ serious, Sherlock…" Jim steps back, pulling the tarp back down, "Somehow, they're summoning it… but it's incomplete… or failing… or _whatever_ …"

"You're afraid of a tiny tentacle monster?" Sherlock gently nudges one with his foot, " _This_? _This_ is your god?"

"Not _my_ god… and _no_ , these are _incomplete_. Azathoth is larger than a good chunk of the cosmos… _if_ he were in this dimension."

"Dimensions, Gods, monsters… how far outside reality are _you_ , exactly?"

"Shut _up_!" He very being shook, "These haunt my dreams… my _world_ … even if you don't believe me, _believe_ the dead, mutated bodies of my men, _decaying_ in front of you."

"Hard to deny." Sherlock huffs, "Fine. I've found your men. What more are we supposed to do?"

Shuffling back further, Jim falls hard on his hips, tripping over a loose floorboard. "Help me up, for one." He groans, staring absently at the ceiling. Leaning over, Sherlock reaches down to take Jim's hands, but as he steps back to gain leverage, he finds himself tripping forward, over the exact same spot. 

"Oh, Sherlock, you dog!" Jim snickers, Sherlock having landed directly on him. 

"Not _now_ Jim." He gets on his knees and turns around to look at where his foot caught on the floorboard.

Except, upon closer examination, it wasn't a floorboard: it was a hatch. "A trapdoor." Sherlock announces in awe, still on his knees, " _Interesting._ "

 

_(As I figured out how to open the latch system, I heard Jim mutter something under his breath about "finding trapdoors more interesting than a quickie." An amusing thought in itself, sex at a crime scene, but when my mind is occupied, it's occupied._

_Plus, I'd just found a hidden passage, a steel ladder leading downward into an ethereal green light. As I lowered myself down, I felt high on discovery._

_I was in no way prepared for what was under the floor.)_

 


	4. The Greenwich Horror

"What the — ?" Sherlock gapes at the "basement" of the barn: it was a very clean-looking, well-stocked laboratory. Chalkboards lined the far wall, and as embarrassed as the detective was to admit it, he couldn't make heads or tails of the equations. 

Well, at least not initially.

"Mmm… genetics." Jim hums, bouncing over to the strings of statistical probability, "Though, not your high school biology genetics… this is heavy stuff." He made some sort of whining noise deep in his throat, as if he were going to throw a tantrum. In one fluid movement, he sweeps a hand over the chalk, leaving a long, obtrusive streak of blank space, coming up with dust, " _Cloning_."

 

_(On most days, I would've been horrified with Jim's flagrant disregard for someone else's work. God only knows how long that poor soul spent on everything that had been laid before us — one scientist to another, it's a code of sorts that you don't interfere._

_But right now, I was only angry that my partner's drunken belligerence had destroyed a piece of intelligence.)_

 

"What the _hell_ , Jim?" Sherlock groans, bounding to his side, eyes frantically scanning the remains, trying to reconstruct the larger bits from his mind palace. But after a few hopeless seconds, it's clear that the consultant's brain hadn't the proper time to store the information, "There could've been something _useful_ on that. Evidence!" 

The shorter man blinks, looking up at Sherlock with the most bored of eyes, "I already know what it said, Sherly-baby." The diminutive was suggestive of continued intoxication, but there was a certain clarity in his voice that couldn't be ignored, "Cloning. Of the human kind. Of the _chimera_ kind."

"I'm going to assume this has little to do with the fire-breathing lion-goat-snake of legend?"

"Quite." Jim nods, "Related, as the term was inspired by that very same mishmash of beings you're referring to, but _here_ we are talking about clones whose features aren't blended. Some pieces are purely human, with others tacked on, but at a genetic level, not some botched surgery." He walked away from the board, to a countertop covered in loose bits of paper, " _A god? A_ god. _This man is insane, and I can't help but feel my conscience stirring. My employer has no compunction over the loss of human life in mass droves, if only to further his own demented goals… forgive me, mother, this wasn't my intent._ "

Sherlock took a sharp breath, "Diary entry?" 

"Yes… written in Latin, but you know that's never been a problem for me." A crooked, pleased smile. Pretentious as all those gits in the Diogenes, but Sherlock would be lying to say it wasn't just the _teeniest_ bit sexy.

"'Forgive me, mother?'" Sherlock quotes bemusedly, "I fail to see how that has any practical application." 

Jim shrugs, "Well, it's some expression of remorse, I suppose. Making peace with himself and the ones he loved… but you do what you gotta do." He flashes a dangerous smile, "Not many options for funding these days if you're not supported by the government, so he's not about to stop." 

"What do you mean? This kind of aberration just reeks of _Baskervilles._ "

"Tsk, tsk, detective." The criminal shook his head slowly, "Crazy or not, even _they_ have standards. The work is a little freeform, but the workers must be in tip-top shape for the dear old Queen's army…" 

"So you're suggesting whoever is doing this has been catering to some eccentric man with money, making some deranged creations to further his science?"

"Merely conjecture, dear." Jim smirks, "Seeing as I have funded a project or two in my time, it makes the most sense to me."

"Wasn't aware you were an expert." 

 

_(Of course, I had meant it as a jab. Few people know this, though my brother is among those elite, but Jim had once had a promising career in mathematics._

_He still did, bloody genius and all, but he'd given up theoretical applications of physics for a more lucrative and unpredictable career in the growing field of heinous crime. Besides, he'd once said he would've been an excellent candidate for the Baskervilles research facility, the things he came up with, but had quite a problem with authority._

_He once calculated for me, cuddled up, nude, in the middle of the night, the exact size and speed necessary an asteroid would need to completely destroy all of England._

_I envy him sometimes.)_

 

But whatever witty comment Jim opened his mouth to fire back with was interrupted by a telltale squeak: someone was coming. 

The trapdoor above had creaked open, footsteps thumping down the rungs of the ladder. The consultants exchanged riled looks, but there wasn't much to be done. 

 

_(There was no time to hide. In fact, whoever our company was had already heard us speaking, explaining the somewhat frantic nature of the descent. One could only hope to distract, and that our guest wasn't the kind to kill on sight._

_I pushed Jim behind me, offering what little protection I could. He snickered a bit, wrapping his arms around my waist, trying to communicate, "What good will this do?" We were both in the red zone, unfortunately._

_So it wouldn't do_ much _besides ensure that I'd be the first one injured, but it was something. It was, however, quite odd that I felt the need to protect him so. Most people I'd leave to their own devices — including Jim, as I had faith in his abilities._

_It was my first clue that there was something more going on.)_

 

"Hey!" A voice echoed through the lab, "What do you think you're doing here?!"

 

 _(Second clue: I_ recognized _the voice._

 _The puzzle pieces began to fall into place the moment I realized who the intruder was. To this day, I'm quite ashamed to admit I hadn't caught on to being misled.)_  

 

"Curwen?" Sherlock furrows his brow, "What are _you_ doing here?"

 


	5. V. The Catch

"… Sherlock Holmes?" Confusion sweeps through the sterile lab as a deadly pathogen in a petri dish, even before the defamed doctor's feet hit the tile, "Here to undermine me once more?" 

 

_(Well, he recovered more quickly from the shock than I did. Than I would've even_ dared _, seeing as I was hard-pressed to think this was at_ all _a coincidence. But I didn't round on Jim quite yet, more curious of the situation than I should've been._

_Mistake, but I couldn't resist the backchat.)_

 

"Obviously." Sherlock rolls his eyes, "No, idiot. Clearly by my tone, you should've realized I was _just_ as surprised as you, if not more. Small wonder I had you disavowed."

 

_(Seeing as I'd been deceived, I really had no room to criticize. Though, it was not my professional reputation on the line… just my fragile ego.)_

 

"Same disparaging arse as always, I see." Curwen grumbles, hopping off the last few rungs of the ladder, hitting the floor with a soft _plop_ , "Still, why _are_ you here?" 

"Well, I _was_ investigating some disappearances… but seeing as my charges are dead, I'm not entirely sure why I'm down _here_ — "

The looming crackle of electricity sparks in his ears, "Wait — !" he begins to turn around, but he's too late as the business end of a taser meets his diaphragm. Air vacates his lungs immediately, leaving him too empty to finish the sentence, or scrounge up the willpower to ask _why_. 

 

_(Somewhere in my peripherals, I saw Curwen collapse as well. But at the time, legs buckling beneath me, I hadn't the presence of mind to figure out why.)_

 

"Yes, honey?" Jim replies as he gently escorts Sherlock to the ground, his beloved convulsing in his arms. He plants a sloppy kiss to the captive's forehead, a small smirk quirking up his lips. 

The detective twitches, every muscle in his body alight with tension, unable to regain control. Full body in terror, shock, unable to comprehend both the betrayal and pain. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is heavy gargling. 

"Shh, shh, shh." Jim traces a finger over Sherlock's lips as he sets him to lay back, "Don't worry, daddy's going to make sure you're taken care of." 

Sherlock, still struggling for breath, hears a steady pace of footsteps approaching, "After you pass out, my men will make sure you find your way back home in tip-top shape." Jim caresses his face gently before getting up, "Trust in the fact that you're far too pretty to hurt."

"Pass… out?" Sherlock wheezes, responding to the most worrisome of the statements. 

"Oh right." Jim smacks his own forehead, bouncing off playfully, "Forgetful me. It's always _something_." He pulls a vial out from his jacket, filled with a thick purple liquid, "Lucky you, this is an _orally_ applied tranquilizer." He drips some between Sherlock's parted lips, "Ms. Adler was so rude, don't you think? Just sticking you with a needle. The _nerve_!" 

"Boss, ready when you are." Sherlock hears as he struggles not to choke on the slimy substance, _Older than Jim. English. Henchman._ His deductive skills couldn't carry him much farther as the edges of his vision began to blur. 

"That's my cue, dear." Jim steps back, "I'll see you soon." 

 

* * *

 

"His entry just stops there." Lestrade muses, journal open on his desk, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "Somehow feels… unfinished." 

"Probably because it _is_." Donovan points out, leaning over his desk, a single finger feeling over the inner spine, "There's been at _least_ a page ripped out." 

"Right, that." John ruffles his hair, getting out of the chair. A good shock required a fair bit of pacing, or so he'd always been taught, "I really could've done without all… _relationship_ stuff."

"Yeah… Jim Moriarty… who would've known?" Lestrade says uneasily, biting the end of his pencil. 

"Is anyone _really_ surprised?" Donovan asks incredulously, "Freak found another freak. Seems like a match made in… hell." 

Giving it any thought at all, it surprised no one.

"So… he's really gone then?" The detective inspector broke the silence.

"Good riddance." Sally mutters.

"Hey!" John snaps, casting her a nasty look, softening as he turns back to Lestrade, "His stuff is still there. And an envelope with a couple month's rent was stuffed under Mrs. Hudson's door…" John sighs, "He's _gone_ , but I don't think forever."

"So, what, we wait?" 

"Bugger that." Donovan gets up, exiting swiftly, "Some of us have jobs to do." 

The men watch her leave, not moving for a minute or two, "Well, Dr. Watson…" Greg looks at him solemnly, "Don't be a stranger, yeah?"

"Right." He gives a single, efficient nod. Signs of Sherlock's inevitable return or not, he still worries the detective has found his true calling. _A proper "goodbye" might've been nice._


	6. VI. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: What Really Happened

_(I woke up in my bed, thoroughly confused. All I really recalled was taking several thousand volts to the torso, shadows of Jim's smile following me through consciousness. My journal laid open on the desk, clearly skimmed._

_A rumble of boiling water in the kitchen told me I wasn't alone.)_

 

"John?" Sherlock calls out, trying to sit up. But the moment his head lifted above the headboard, his vision went wobbly, falling back to avoid fainting. _Suppose I'll just stay here then…_ "Are you making tea? Bring some. Not feeling well." 

A clinking of silverware and porcelain ebbs its way toward the detective. Sherlock shuts his eyes in relief; when John is less talkative, it means he understands the severity of the situation and won’t press until its passed. _If it ever passes…_

"Not _John_ , unfortunately." A melodic Irish drawl echoes into the room, "But I _did_ make us tea, so… forgive me?" He bats his eyelashes, as if an ice cube wouldn't melt under his armpit.

"For not being Watson, or for betraying me and subsequently drugging me?"

"A little of both." He shrugs, setting the tray on the nightstand. He sat on the mattress, beginning to fix up the teacups, "But mostly the latter.” 

Sherlock hums, shutting his eyes once more, "Still groggy, so I'm not quite up to our usual banter."

"That's fine." Jim slides a hand under the detective's curls, tilting his head up, the other hand offering the cup. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but drinks from it gratefully.

"Going through my case notes?" He asks as the tea was taken away, noticing his journal was in some disarray. 

"Oh yes." Jim smirks, eyes scanning over the desk with the softest of looks, "Such a lovely read. You should consider writing mystery novels."

"Mm… they'd be gripping, especially since I haven't yet figured out how it ends."

" _Oh?_ " Jim chuckles, "Well, I could tell you pretty easily — we run off together into the sunset, a trail of bodies in our wake. Really, it makes sense- "

"Stop." Sherlock drones, "Wasting both of our time, really. Moment of actual candor, Jim: what was the case _really_ about?"

"Another moment discussing our future is _never_ a waste on my watch, darling." Jim scolds, waggling a finger, “But as for what it was about… well, a spot of fun, really." 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "Jim, I have been far too abused today to put up with your teasing. Again: _stimulating_ , if you expect leniency."

Heavy sigh, " _That,_ and I needed the corrupt scientist distracted so I could send in my men. And so they could scoop him up — such a brilliant mind in genetic engineering has a place with us… closely monitored, of course."

“You distracted him with a break-in by the one person he abhorred?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “No. It’s _you_ — never anything so simple.”

“So you’re learning… that’s good.” Jim shrugs, tapping fingers to his chin, “Perhaps, perhaps… you’re never wrong my sweet, but this needs to be kept secret for a while… private buyers and all.”

“As far as I could see, he was a crack scientist… brilliant before I had him incarcerated, but _now?_ What could you have possibly wanted from the ravings of a madman?”

“ _Ravings_ are a lovely form of free-association…” The smaller man tuts melodically, fingers crawling affectionately over Sherlock’s arm, “Could learn something insightful, even if on accident.”

“Recorded somehow, so that you could obsess over them. Only way to search for anything meaningful in a tangle of gibberish…” Sherlock narrows his eyes, “You have his notes.”

“Only the important ones.” 

“Oh good.” Sherlock says casually, plucking out the scraps of paper he’d stashed in his sleeve, “Meaning whatever I need, you’ve already found it for me.”

Jim's hand drops to his now-empty pocket, taking only seconds to discern it was now empty, " _Oh!_ " He nearly shrieks in joy, face utterly dumbstruck, not even trying to take them back, “You are _good_."

“I know.” Sherlock pets the back of his palm over the haphazard handwriting, “Your fingerprints must be all over this… it shouldn’t be any trouble at all placing you at the crime scene.”

“And what would you charge me with?” Jim smirks, “Those _evil men_ kidnapped Mr. Curwen. I was just an innocent bystander.”

“One who tasered me, and proceeded to drug me so that you could evade arrest?”

Jim’s nostrils flared, “I think…” He posits carefully, “That you’ll find that particular drug has blurred your testimony.”

“And if we were to catch your minions?” It only earns Sherlock a scoff — no one ever sold out Moriarty. Sooner die, since that’d happen anyway. “Fine. Perhaps the Yard couldn’t charge you with anything. But that doesn’t change the fact I’m rather upset with you.”

“Not used to being _used,_ darling?”

“You could’ve _told_ me. I would’ve gone simply for the information… we could’ve had time to investigate further.” 

Jim grins, patting Sherlock’s shoulder, “Maybe next time.”

“Is there going to be a ‘next time?’”

“Who can say?” Jim shrugs, “Though, admittedly, I may have to cancel an extended business trip…” He gestures to the stolen notes, “I had a Norwegian genetics expert who would’ve paid a high price _just_ for a chance to pick through those.”

“How extended?” Sherlock clutches a little tighter to the book. He didn’t like it when Jim left — always a distinct lull in crime.

“Few months… have to keep an eye on my investment, after all. And the buyer is an old acquaintance from Uni.”

“Someone you might call a friend?”

The shorter man sucks at his bottom lip, “Maybe not that far. But I’m sure he’d delight in meeting you as well.”

“How is that relevant?” 

“Come with me.” He says suddenly, with great enthusiasm, clasping Sherlock’s hand between both of his own, “We needn’t stay secluded in Norway the whole time… we could stir up trouble. Explore old mysteries… engage each other’s abilities without limit of recognition.”

“Jim, you know I _can’t_ \- ”

“Sherlock.” Jim whispers as he entwines their fingers, “Your precious ordinaries can wait for a time. But right now? Right _now_ you belong with someone who can _challenge_ you.”

“They’ll worry. Look for me.”

“Not if you leave compelling evidence you were going on a long expedition…” He firmly taps the journal, “It’ll be as if you were in a rush to follow after my trail.”

Pause. Sound enough reasoning. The notes were enticing. New information, in the room with a _specialist_ … with Jim. 

“Could it be longer than a few months?” 

 


End file.
